The Doorman

She saw him everyday.

The first time, she exited her apartment building in a rush, late for work. He pulled the door open for her and smiled, though his face was a blur to her as she went past.

"Thanks," she breathed. "Bye."

"Cheerio."

He had an English accent, which caught her attention, and she looked back. He smiled again, and she noticed how it made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He tippped his hat and she raised her hand in an awkward wave and turned away to hail a cab.

A week later it was pouring rain and she had forgotten her umbrella in her apartment. It was twenty floors up and she didn't have time to go back. She bit her lip, assessing the rain and how it would affect her hair, while he held the door open, smiling kindly.

"You can have mine," he said cheerfully, raising his eyebrows to his own umbrella.

"Oh, I couldn't." She shook her head slightly, but he merely waited, holding the door open with one hand and holding the umbrella out for her to step under with the other.

She relented and stepped beneath the umbrella, immediately entering its cocoon of safety as the pitter patter of rain hit the dome of fabric. She took hold of the handle and their hands touched. She felt her cheeks flush for a moment as she looked into his eyes, an almost ethereal blue, and then he dropped his hand and she stepped away.

"What about you?" she asked as she stepped toward the street.

He reached behind him and revealed a second umbrella. She hadn't seen it before. It must have been leaning against the wall behind him. He flicked the release, the umbrella popped open, and he raised it above his head.

"Always carry a spare brolly," he said with a wink.

On a day where the sun broke through the incessant cloud cover, its light glinting off the towering skyscrapers of New York City, he had a flower for her.

"It's a moon poppy," he told her when she eyed it quizically. "It represents those who have fallen in battle in a past life, memory, and..." He paused. "Ressurection."

She looked into his eyes again as she took the flower. They were always so soft and kind; comforting. At this moment they were like cold steel in how serious they were. She was confused... and intrigued.

"That's quite poetic," she said quietly. She lowered her eyelids and she lifted the flower to her nose and breathed in. In the back of her mind there was a tug on a memory she couldn't quite place as the scent of the flower brought a sense of familiarity. When she looked back up his eyes had returned to normal and he smiled sheepishly.

"Just something to brighten the day with all the dreary weather we've been having."

But she sensed it was something more.

One evening she returned to her apartment building with a bandage on her right hand. A glass beaker had broken in the lab and she'd cut her palm cleaning it up.

"Oh dear." His eyes went dark blue as they swirled with concern and he asked what happened. As she told him, he lightly took her hand in both of his, cupping it between them. She didn't pull away.

"The lab?" he questioned.

"Oh, of course, you don't know," she realized. "I work in a genetics lab."

"Ah, you're a Doctor." He was still holding her hand.

"No, I- Yes." She stopped. Usually people assumed she was a lab assistant. "Yes, I have my PhD in genetics."

"Lovely."

She was staring into his eyes again and her hand suddenly went hot. It was like a burn, intense, but it didn't hurt. He let go and said, "Well. I'm sure that will heal before you know it." And without another word he held the door open for her and tipped his hat as she slowly walked through, glancing back at him several times as she walked toward the elevator.

She went to bed that night and when she awoke in the morning she removed the bandage. Her cut was gone.

She saw him everyday. Until one day she didn't. She came out of the elevator, expecting to see his silhouette against the gold framed glass door. Her gait slowed as she realized it wasn't him at the door. The man was taller, thicker, and he had a beard. He pulled the door open and smiled. It was polite, but there was no warmth in it.

"Is there something I can do for you, ma'am?" he asked as she continued to stare.

"Sorry." She came to her senses. "It's just... Where's-" And she stopped. She realized, in all this time, she didn't know his name. "Where's the man who was here before?"

The man shrugged slightly. "I'm just here to fill a job."

"Of course. I'm sorry. Thank you." She walked away, embarrassed and confused. Where was he?

That night she visited the leasing office to talk to the manager of the building.

"All I can tell you is he was called away."

She nodded, disheartened, and started to turn away. Then she paused.

"Can you tell me his name?"

The manager glanced down at their notes. "His name is... Harry."